


Tale as Old as Time, Song as Old as Rhyme (Beauty and the Beast)

by catlike



Series: Stardust and Story Books (A Collection of Whouffle and Whouffaldi Fairy Tale Retelling One-Shots) [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Beauty and the Beast, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, bittersweet and strange finding you can change, learning you were wrong, whouffaldi, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlike/pseuds/catlike
Summary: There is a prince, the villagers say, who is all things great and terrible. He has a voice that sounds like winter frost and a temper like a burning star. He is older than half the universe, has seen stars be born and civilizations fall, and thinks of a century passing as nothing more than a span of breath.According to legend, the best part - or maybe,maybeit’s the worst part - is that when he reaches the end of one life, he can go on to the next. He can burn himself up with golden fire and be reborn with a different face, like a phoenix cheating death and rising from the flames, shaking off the ashes of its old self.He’s a monster, some villagers say. A beast. A madman.A fairy tale.A Whouffaldi Beauty and the Beast AU, or: a fairy tale retelling of the episode ‘Deep Breath.’
Relationships: The Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Stardust and Story Books (A Collection of Whouffle and Whouffaldi Fairy Tale Retelling One-Shots) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692124
Comments: 24
Kudos: 125





	Tale as Old as Time, Song as Old as Rhyme (Beauty and the Beast)

There is a prince, the villagers say, who is all things great and terrible. He has a voice that sounds like winter frost and a temper like a burning star. He is older than half the universe, has seen stars be born and civilizations fall, and thinks of a century passing as nothing more than a span of breath. According to legend, the best part - or maybe, _maybe_ it’s the worst part - is that when he reaches the end of one life, he can go on to the next. He can burn himself up with golden fire and be reborn with a different face, like a phoenix cheating death and rising from the flames, shaking off the ashes of its old self.

He’s a monster, some villagers say. A beast. A madman.

A fairy tale.

#

Clara Oswald (twenty-six and a governess, with far too many books and far too little patience for provincial life) likes to think she’s practical, and practical people don’t believe in silly things like celestial princes who can transform their face. They simply do not waste their time with bedtime stories meant for children.

Which is why Clara won’t admit to anyone that she believes in them, believes they’re as real as the lake that winds through her small, sleepy town or as real as the four walls of her tiny room at the Maitland’s.

If she tells anyone, they’ll tell her that all her reading has ruined her mind, that fantasy and reality don’t bleed together like watercolor paint on a canvas, but Clara knows better.

She knows better, you see, because she’s actually met the prince.

He is the stuff of legend, with stardust in his eyes and eternity in his soul, a high born Gallifreyan, the eleventh prince of the realm, and she is a girl from a small village, who works both as a barmaid and governess and waits and hopes and dreams for the day she can leave and see a world beyond her village. Their paths should never have crossed, and yet they keep meeting, again and again and _again_ , like the universe has decided that their fate’s intertwined. And Clara doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind a bit, because he has a soft voice and a kind smile and gentle hands that somehow always find their way to hers.

She doesn’t truly know him she supposes, their chance meetings are always touch and go, like a brief ripple in a lake, and yet she’s already (hopelessly, desperately, breathlessly) half in love with him, and whenever she looks into his eyes, she swears he’s half in love with her too.

So, no, Clara doesn’t know everything about him, but she knows what sort of a man he is (a good sort, the kind you’d die for, but the kind who’d rather die than ever let you). Which is why she can’t believe it when the news reaches her that the ’beast’ in the blue castle up on the hill ( _how dare they_ , she thinks when she hears it, _how dare they call her prince a beast_ ) has captured her employer, Master Maitland, and is holding him prisoner just to be cruel.

Clara knows that there must be a mistake, that the prince - _her_ prince - would never do a thing like that. So she lays down her book, pulls on her boots, and tells the two frightened Maitland children in her charge that she’s going up to the castle to bring their father back.

#

(She’s never been to the prince’s castle before, but despite this fact, finding her way up to it is not hard. Neither is finding its dungeon.

What’s hard is what happens next.)

Clara‘s fingers are wrapped around the bars of the castle’s prison cell, and she‘s staring at Master Maitland sitting inside. He looks dazed and half-mad, and he’s ranting and raving about incredible things, about a golden glow and a red rose, about how the castle’s bigger on the inside and how there’s a beast there who haunts it and Clara can’t follow it all. 

“You stole a rose?” she asks, eyebrows furrowing, mind ticking away like a clock, trying to make sense of this tangled mess of a story he’s telling.

“Not just any rose,” a new, monstrous voice says from somewhere behind Clara, and she recoils against the grey stone wall, cold seeping in through her shawl. The voice that‘s speaking comes from the shadows, curling out from the darkness like mist, and she can’t see the speaker. “It was the last rose of Gallifrey.”

The words register, and the situation hits Clara like a wave upon the shore.

“No,” she whispers, “no, Master Maitland, tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know,” her boss sobs, bending his head and dragging it down the bars, “I didn’t _know_.”

Most people didn’t, Clara supposes. The story sounds like a fairy tale, all fantastic and fanciful: that the last rose of Gallifrey and the prince are connected, that each red velvet petal on it was a life to be lived, and to cause a petal to fall would be to cause the prince to die, to burn himself up and emerge anew.

Regeneration, it’s called. A fancy name, a pretty thing.

It still means death.

“Tell me a petal didn’t fall,” Clara begs the darkness, but even as she says it, she knows that it’s hopeless, that it’s already happened. And yet she can’t help but plead anyway, “Please, please tell me he didn’t change.”

There’s silence from the shadows, and then that voice again, all stoic and sharp like pointed arrows and jagged glass and it cuts her to the core as the voice says, “ _I_ did change.”

 _Stars_. He’s...the voice is...

The voice belongs to _him_. She’s been talking to him without even knowing it.

And why didn’t he correct her until this moment? Why did her prince not greet her?

Clara says nothing for a minute. It feels as if the air’s getting thin and the walls are closing in, like the ground is crumbling beneath her feet and she cannot find a safe place to land. Clara tries to trace the silhouette in the shadows, tries to piece together a picture of this new man, but she cannot.

“Step into the light,” she says.

Her words hang in the air, half a command, half a dare, and then a man she doesn’t recognize emerges from the darkness.

He has grey hair and anger-filled eyes, and his face is all sharp angles and hard lines. It’s not his change in appearance that makes her heart twist all raw and painful, it’s his demeanor. He stands there, squinting at her, arms stiff at his sides, and the prince, the prince Clara knows, ( _her_ prince, she thinks rather possessively), would run to her, kiss her forehead, take her hand. Her prince had sparkled with energy, like a shooting star, all bright and glittering and always in motion.

But even shooting stars fade to nothing eventually. 

“Strax?” the man asks, glaring down at her, like she’s some sort of puzzle he can’t figure out.

“Clara,” she chokes out. She can’t believe he’s getting her mixed up with one of his odd servants, let alone the one that resembles a rather angry enchanted potato. “It’s _Clara_.”

He shrugs. “It might be, you two are very similar heights, so I’m not sure.”

“It _is_ Clara,” she snaps, and her voice comes out angrier than she intends it too, all loud and hard, but she can’t help it, can’t help it that she’s trying to grasp the fact that the man she loves is dead, and yet he still stands in front of her. _Insulting_ her, of all things.

“Well, _Clara_ ,” he says, saying her name in a beastly growl, as if it might not really be her name at all, ”the _pudding brain_ in the cell over there stole the last rose of Gallifrey, killing one of my lives. According to the ancient law of my kingdom, the murderer must die too; a life for a life.”

Clara shakes her head in disbelief, in outrage, “That’s _stupid_.”

“I agree,” he replies, and Clara feels a glimmer of hope that maybe, maybe, _maybe_ her prince is still in there somewhere, buried beneath the grey hair and gravely voice and rude insults. “However, I cannot completely circumvent ancient law without consequences. I can save him from death, but a life still has to be exchanged for a life. He has to remain here as a prisoner.”

Clara glances at Master Maitland, alone in his cell, sentenced to be there forever, and she thinks.

She thinks of her book, 101 Places to See, stuck snug in her shelf, pages unopened and list uncrossed. She thinks of her grand plans and the maps she’s poured over, of adventure in the great wide somewhere and how she wants more, more, _more_. More of the world and more of the wonders that exist beyond the pages of her books and so much more than this provincial life.

But then she thinks of the two children back home, who only have one living parent left, who have already known far too great a loss at far too young an age. It’s a feeling Clara knows all too well, and there’s still grief from her own loss etched into her memories and onto her skin. She won’t let anyone on this Earth go through what she went through, she decides, not if she can help it.

Which is why she says, “Take me instead.”

#

Clara expects to stay in the prison cell, but Strax (Odd and brown and round and surely enchanted and how, how, _how_ did that beast ever mix _her_ up with _him_?) leads her down the halls of the blue castle that somehow really does seem bigger on the inside. Whenever Clara thinks that surely, surely they are on the lowest floor, or that they have reached a wall, there is still another spiral staircase downward, or yet another corridor, and the passageways shift and change and shimmer with starlight.

She should be scared, she thinks, she should be absolutely _terrified_. Clara has always fancied herself as a practical person, and practical people should be frightened of things like glowing walls that rearrange themselves.

But she is not. For once, she thinks, this is something _new_. This is something brilliant and spectacular and something so, so much more than her sleepy little village with its sleepy little people.

Clara almost forgets that she is being led somewhere and not just exploring (and really, that’s what she’d like to do, push the boundaries of this strange castle just for the fun of seeing how far she can push), when Strax stops abruptly at a door.

“I suggested we disintegrate you in acid,” Strax tells her, plainly and rather pleasantly. “But the Master insists that you are his guest, and that I put you here, in the Belle Room.”

Strax opens the door and a gasp of _oh my stars_ leaves Clara’s lips, because she can see why it’s called the Belle Room. It has marble columns and etched carvings and gold leaf, and stained glass that sends mosaics the colors of rubies and sapphires across the floor. 

“He also demands I tell you that you are free to go wherever you like in the castle,” Strax says, and he looks utterly disgusted, like the very idea of letting her wander about instead of locking her up is repulsive. “Even the West Wing, _if_ you can find it. But the castle itself is very peculiar about that wing, probably won’t let you near it anyhow.”

And, yes, Clara _could_ be scared, but all she can think of is how this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her in all her life, that here, there are enchanted corridors that lead to who knows where and the promise of something exciting, something dazzling, and back home...back home there are only orders and lessons and laundry and the same few books she’s read over and over again. 

_101 Places to See_ , she thinks. She’ll come for them all, one day, she can swear to that, but for now...this is a promising substitute.

#

His eyes are as blue as a clear winter sky, but his voice is as cold as one. If he’s snapping or snarking at her it’s fine, because Clara has always been able to give as good as she gets. Their fast chatter, their back and forth banter, is a dance she’s familiar with, one that reminds her of her old prince. But him ignoring her, or treating her as if he’s indifferent to her, hurts in a way she can’t quite explain. They used to talk endlessly when they met, packing in a month’s worth of conversation in minutes as she talked about all the places she wanted to go and he told her about all the places he’d been.

But now the only time he bothers to talk to her is when he asks her to dinner.

(“No,” she snaps at his invitation - if you can call a single word said in a flippant manner an _invitation._ And _No_ is what she always says, because really, how _dare_ he disappear on her all day, every day, and then arrive at her door without so much as a _’Hello’_ or _‘Sorry I got you mixed up with an enchanted potato man,’_ and pretend he’s a civil person who can eat a civil dinner?

“Impossible girl,” he snaps back at her, which is what he always does.

At any rate, she thinks it’s better that he calls her that instead of calling her _Strax._ )

#

Clara seeks him out one day. She doesn’t even realize she is, but when she lays eyes on his form - with his coat as black as night with its flashes of red as bright as rose petals - Clara cannot deny that it was him she was looking for.

He’s in the West Wing, which she swears the castle rearranged on her because it’s most definitely _not_ in the West, and she’s not even sure if the small circular room could even be considered a wing. 

And it took her nearly three weeks of wandering to find it. (The castle, she thinks, much to her annoyance, doesn’t like her. She wonders if it’s owner feels the same.)

And speaking of it’s owner: his back is to her, and he’s writing on a chalkboard, his long, clever fingers drawing intricate spheres across the black, and the words look like bright white stars bursting forth out of the darkness.

(He writes in a long-dead language, one Clara can’t read, but she thinks...she thinks he’s writing something that’s half poetry, half arithmetic.)

“We used to meet,” she starts off saying, and then she laughs, backtracks, realizes what an understatement that is for whatever really happened between them. “I mean, we’d meet again and again and again, by a pond, behind a pub, in the snow, anywhere. _Everywhere_. And always on a Wednesday. Why?”

He shrugs. “Wednesdays are nice.”

“Yeah, but he sought me out. Why?” 

“ _I,_ ” he corrects her, and beneath his calm demeanor, there’s something like a beastly growl to his words. “ _I_ sought you out, Clara. I’m still the same man underneath.”

”Sorry,” she says, and she is sorry, she doesn’t want to hurt him. “I know you’re the same.”

It’s a lie. They both know it. But for now, he lets it slide.

“I was going to ask you to travel with me,” he admits quietly, back still to her.

The idea of him ever offering that to her makes Clara’s heart beat fast, fluttering out a melody against her ribcage. ”Why?”

“I travel frequently, and always with a companion.”

“No,” Clara shuts her eyes, lets out a breath. “No, that’s not what I meant, why would -“ the word _he_ is on the tip of her tongue, but she catches it, changes it, “why would you ask me?”

He laughs, “Clara Oswald: Too big of a mind for so small of a town. A governess and a barmaid, with so much practicalness in her actions and yet all those dreams in her mind, so many contradictions all wrapped up in one person. How could I resist?”

 _Show me the stars,_ her mind begs him silently, _offer to take me away and give me adventure in the great wide somewhere. I’d say yes._

“It's a pity you never offered,” she says. She’s testing him, baiting him, and somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks she should feel self-conscious and ashamed, but she doesn’t, because never has she ever wanted anything so badly.

“Yes,” he says, a bit stiffly, “it’s a pity.”

He says nothing more, silence stretching out between them, and though they stand a few feet apart, though Clara is close enough to reach out and take his hand, the divide between them seems to be as wide and fierce as a black hole that can suck down burning stars and swallow entire planets.

Clara steps away, face falling, silently nodding. He _says_ he’s the same man, says he was going to offer to travel with her, but he doesn't offer now. He must not feel the same way about her, she realizes, not anymore.

(She never stops to think that maybe he doesn’t offer because he’s afraid she’ll say no.)

#

And this is how they are: three steps forward and two steps back. But they keep being drawn to each other, like there is something tying the two of them together.

It’s as if the universe is saying, _these two, it will always be these two. Stars may fall and planets may burn, times will change and people will too, but it will always, always, always be them together: Clara Oswald and the last prince of Gallifrey._

_Even if they don’t know it yet._

#

“You’re free to go, you know,” he says out of the blue one day, all sudden and Scottish and abrupt, and Clara can’t help but think he’s trying to kick her out. He still hasn’t extended that offer to travel with him, much to her disappointment, and now he’s saying that she can leave. She wonders if he’s gotten tired of having a short, stubborn girl meander about his castle walls (insulting them more often than not) in search of something dazzling.

“You’re no longer my prisoner. You never really ever were,” he admits.

“Never really thought I was,” Clara replies. “Most prison cells don’t look like my room here.”

There’s more to say. That she knew that he may be cold, but never cruel, that she had guessed his blustering and flippancy hid someone who cared. That she’s not scared of him, she’s just...well, she doesn’t think she really knows who he is anymore. Or what he thinks of her. 

But she says none of that. Instead, she settles for lifting her chin and saying, “Besides, I could have escaped any time I wanted.”

He arches an eyebrow at her.

“I’m very clever you know,” Clara continues, unfazed. 

Seconds pass as he stares at her, and then there’s a smirk on the corner of his lips. “Oh, Clara Oswald, I _know_ you are.”

And for the first time since she’s arrived, for the first time since he’s changed, they share a smile.

And Clara swears there might be something there that wasn’t there before.

#

It is a warm summer night with a sky full of stars right outside the windows. There is music playing in the background and this magic, mad, impossible man is rambling on about Beethoven and something called a bootstrap paradox, and so he doesn’t even notice that Clara’s dragging him to the center of the ballroom until they're in the middle of the dance floor.

He pauses in the middle of his spiel, his hypothesis about time streams and melodies stopping mid-sentence as he blinks owlishly at his surroundings and then down at Clara.

“I don’t think I’m a dancing man,” he says, very decidedly.

“I don’t think you get a vote,” she says, pulling him closer.

It is not a waltz, and maybe it’s not even a dance. Because, no, he is not a dancing man, but he _does_ temper his ramblings so they keep in the four-fourths time of the waltz, and he _does_ sway a little from side to side, because Clara insists he try, and he can’t say no. He can’t ever say no to her. 

(He almost asks her to travel with him then, she thinks, but he doesn’t. She won’t know why until later.)

#

Because he finally asks her civilly, Clara finally says yes to dinner.

It’s a mistake.

There are automatons, automatons made of clockwork and bone, of cogs and flesh, who hiss out “be our guest,” and trap her and him in their restaurant of death.

But that’s not the worst part. 

No, the worst part is when he manages to wrench himself free from his chains while she’s still bound, and with one foot out the door, he turns and tells her, “Sorry, they’re coming. No point in us both getting caught.”

And then he disappears, and she is alone, and all she can think of is: 

_Her_ prince wouldn’t have left her.

#

The automaton is made of copper and stolen skin and is staring down at Clara through eyes that don’t belong to it.

There are other automatons all around her, with their stolen, sawed-off parts, encircling her like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey and part of her mind is screaming, wondering if they’ll rip out her throat like wolves would too.

She tries to ignore that screaming, terrified part of her mind. 

“Where is he,” the automaton ticks out, in a voice that’s both dead and alive. “Where is the prince?”

“I don’t know,” Clara gasps out, “I don’t know.”

“But you know him.”

 _Does she?_ she wonders, and the question echoes around in the cavern of her mind over and over again. Clara knows he is wonderful and terrible, both warrior and peacemaker, monster and sanctuary. She knows that, once upon a time, he cared about her very much. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, he still might even if he doesn’t show it.

(Clara can’t be sure though, every day she waits for him to extend the invitation to travel with him, and every day he doesn’t, and so every day she dies inside. He can’t truly be her prince, not if he never asks like he once said he wanted to, not if he doesn’t care to travel with her any longer.)

“I don’t know if I know the prince anymore,” she says, “but if I _do,_ then I know where he will be, where he will _always_ be.”

Clara holds out her hand in the air, palm up, as if she can summon him to her side, as if, out of anywhere in the world he could be, out of every choice he has, he will always choose to be next to her.

And maybe he will, she thinks, _(oh, he always will, oh, if only she knew,)_ because the next thing she knows, she’s no longer alone. He’s there, by her side, taking her hand, and pulling her with him to safety.

#

The automatons of death are defeated, and now Clara is back in the castle with its shifting, magic walls, and this impossible man is leading her down one, to a set of doors she’s never seen before.

“Got a present for you,” he tells her, in that gruff growl of his, only this time, it sounds warmer, happier, less beastly. “To make up for the ruined dinner.”

Clara breathes out a laugh, raises an eyebrow, “And for the almost dying?”

He sniffs imperiously, bats his hand dismissively, as if death couldn’t compete with the undignified atrocity of ruined dinner plans. “That too, I suppose.”

He opens the double doors in front of him, and the sight inside nearly leaves Clara breathless. She is staring at a library that looks as if it goes on forever, with books as far as the eye can see. The shelves full of leather bound volumes start at the floor and go on til the ceiling, and Clara steps inside, mind spinning, breath catching, nearly crying because she’s seeing more books in one room in this one moment than she ever has in her entire lifetime.

”How did you know?” She asks, ripping her eyes away from the beauty of the books and back to him. She can’t recall ever talking to him about books since she’s come here, doesn’t think he’s ever caught her reading. “You chose this for me, but how on Earth did you know? That out of every room you could have shown me, that this is the one I’d like?”

He stares at her, and the expression on his face is lonely and lovely and longing and sad, like he’s looking at something he can’t have. “You told me already, explained how you loved books because they were like being able to hold a slice of the universe in your hands. You told me that, the day in the snow, remember?”

Clara blinks, and ever so slowly, the memory comes back to her: Him, with the brown hair and long limbs and different face, listening to her talk about both the books she’d already read and the ones she still wanted to read as the gently falling snow glittered in the streetlights and dusted the pavement.

“That was _me_ you told all those things to,” he says now, and he laughs, and it sounds wistful and bitter and broken. “You can’t see me, can you? You look at me, but you can’t see me. I’m not in the past, Clara, I’m not dead, I’m _here_ , standing in front of you. See me. Please, just see _me._ ”

She steps forward, studying at his face, searching for her answer, and it’s like whatever spell between them that has kept her from seeing him finally breaks, because suddenly she sees him, _really_ sees him.

His hair is grey, his skin is lined, and he scowls more often than not. But his eyes are still the same. Not in color and not in shape, but, _oh,_ how had she not seen it there before? He still looks at her like how he always looked at her: like she is the stars and the moon, the sky and the sea. Like she is everything in his world. He reaches for her less, sounds rougher and sometimes ruder than he ever has, but he still loves her, she realizes. 

_I loved you in my last life,_ his eyes tell her, _I love you in this one, and whoever I am in my next life, I’ll love you in that one too._

Clara reaches out for him, all but collapses against him as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug, and it feels like coming _home_. This is _her_ prince. He’s always been her prince.

His arms stiffen - he’s not a hugger, this new man - but she hears an almost inaudible exhale, like he had been holding his breath waiting for her verdict, and it sounds like a soft sigh of tired relief, as if he’s relieved to find sanctuary in a place he thought there might be none.

 _It’s him,_ her mind chants in time to the rhythm of his two heartbeats, _it’s him, it’s him, it’s him._ He hadn't changed completely, not in any way that truly counted.

And since it’s him...

“You once told me that there was an invitation you were going to offer me,” Clara whispers, face still pressed against the soft velvet of his coat. “Why didn’t you ever actually ask me?”

“I thought you’d say no.”

“I would never say no to you.”

(And she won’t, not to him.)

“Well then, Clara Oswald,” he says, and she pulls back to peer up at him, and _ah ha,_ there it is: the smile she’d recognize anywhere, the magic one that’s made of madness and mayhem and glows like every star in the galaxy all at once. “How about adventure in the great wide somewhere?”

She grins back at him.

“Show me the stars,” she says.

(And he does.)

#

There is a prince, the villagers say, who is all things great and terrible. There is girl who is the same, and they rule together. The first time you see them, people say, you think the two of them couldn’t be more different, like they are light and darkness, fire and rain. But the second time you see them, you realize that they couldn’t be more alike, that they are both brilliant and mad and filled with stardust and wanderlust, and that they shine together like they’re two halves of the same star.

Beauty and the beast, some call them. Mad travelers. 

A fairy tale.

The tales always change, the gossip shifting as it passes from villager to villager, but when it comes down to it, the facts are these:

In whatever form, in whatever way, in whatever end of history they’re on, and whatever alternate universe they’re in, they will find each other, her and him. It will always, always, _always_ be them: Clara Oswald and the last prince of Gallifrey.

Some people are just meant to be in each other’s lives.

**Author's Note:**

> The Series 8 premiere, Deep Breath, has always struck me as a Beauty and the Beast story. I mentioned this to my amazing tumblr friend Kate (Hi, Kate, if you’re reading this. Which you’d better be, because I pulled out my draft and started finishing this at one in the morning for you.) who not so subtly hinted that I actually finish the Whouffaldi fairy tale AU I’d started.
> 
> If you enjoyed what I wrote, come find me on tumblr (username: clara-oswin-oswald), where I can most often be found screaming and writing about my otp, Whouffle. I love talking to my fellow Whouffle/Whouffaldi fans!


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